


Stars are just old lights

by kaluha (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kaluha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hate clocks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars are just old lights

**Author's Note:**

> help i write too many dave centric things  
> help all my writings are so short

You sit in the clock store, fitting in gears and clogs and adding another ticking contraption to the harmony that haunts your every waking hour. From across the road the clock tower chimes. You hate clocks. You hate the asshole who invented the damn things more. It must be strange to hear such words from a clock maker – from a man who wears a gear on his chest, bright and red, to remind himself of his servitude to time, to his greatest enemy. You smirk at the idea, putting the little watch down on your work bench. You remember a different time, a time where in you were not subject to but in command of the very flow of it – a god of time. You were not where you are now. You were in the deep recess of space, in the furthest ring of the cosmos with foreign creatures in grey, human hides and gods who reigned over other powerful aspects. That far into space, time did not exist. Out there everything runs into each other, past memories could be found and accessed, different dimensions crossing over like gas leaks. Everything was overlapped and blurred, layers of time upon time. In this place you could control time – go back, go forward, slow it and even stop it. 

Time is not a linear as a clock makes you believe. It’s not as linear as the human race perceives it to be. Everything that happens in the present simply stacks on top of that which has already happened in the past. The two play at the same time, two tracks on different stereos. Most people can hear only the track of the present – but you could hear both. You saw them all the time, fragmented memories of the past like background noise, centuries of layers playing over and over in a confusing, clouding mess. That was a different life, a different time. Each ticking hand reminds you – normal, powerless, boring you – of just how undeviating the flow of time was here in the real world. It’s why you sit in this shop, hands working away, a futile attempt to reassure yourself you’re still in control, still have time in your hands, like spinning records at your command. 

At time, you think your powers have returned – a sudden shift in the day, the world seemingly slowing – but like water it quickly slips into the cracks and disappears. People come, people go. So linear, so predictable. Moving clockwork, continuing day after day. They’re all so similar, faces becoming indistinguishable by the ticking of hands. Some days a passing face will snap you out of the steady rhythm of the world you created in your gritty, cosy shop. They walk by outside the window, passing silently. A shadow of a memory, a long ago friend. But they weren’t your friends, not really. They were just simple versions of them, copies placed in this dimension just as there were copies of you in other dimensions. They were counterfeits of the people you once loved, who you once fought alongside with – other gods of other elements. The classy woman with the short cropped hair, the woman who saw all and whose powers stemmed from the light. The girl with the buckteeth and huge glasses, the girl who weaved space like a spell at her command as if it was simple witch craft. Then there was him. The boy with the dark hair, with the blue eyes like jewels and a laugh like spring. He was the heir of the wind, the son of the air itself. More than that, he was your best friend. That was another life. In this life, he’s just a stranger passing in the crowded streets. People grow old, and so do they. You see them walk past, you see them age. You sit in the dark and watch because it’s all you can do. 

Eventually their faces disappear, and you are alone in the world – always alone. Your reflection has not changed a line on your passive, emotionless face. The tower tolls again and sorrow begins to well. Time did not leave you, just like sight did not leave the god of light. She had seen you. She had looked through the glass, purple lips curved up and nodded to you. Deep down, she could remember you – even if she didn’t realise it herself. Sight could not preserve her like time had preserved you. It had kept you young, it’s great knight, its perfect keeper. Time had left you alone again. Time had broken you. You feel a strange sensation of betrayal.

You hate clocks. You hate them because they’re a reminder, like the little coloured bands on the fingers of the space witch. It’s a reminder of what you’ve lost, what you’ve earned and what you miss. You abide to the clock’s rhythm. Every hour passes by, the day resets, and plays over itself again. Day in, day out. Time is in control. You’re sad, you’re alone, but each toll of the clock reminds you of just how a part of you it’s become. How much it always had been.  
You resign yourself to servitude, the gear that was once your heart turning continuously.  
Time passes, you feel nothing. The gear continues relentlessly. You realise with detached curiosity that you have become a piece in the great clock of the universe, a small metal part that keeps the machine running.  
You accept this fate with timeless grace.  
The irony of this statement twists your lips up.  
You remember a time where irony meant something to you.  
You remember a time where many things meant something to you.

You remember a boy named Dave and a game he played with three friends.


End file.
